


this is gospel

by AvaMclean



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse, Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., Gen, Loss of Heaven, Protective Castiel, Rewrite, Season Six Redo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was discourteous, inconsiderate and utterly without hope. If Dean Winchester was Castiel’s most difficult charge than Buffy Summers was a close second. (Series of drabbles & short stories)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. scorched/home

Title: scorched/home  
Word Count: 100/200  
Fandom: BtVS, Supernatural  
Challenge: #103 that thing with feathers @ tthdrabbles  
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.

 

Title: scorched  
Word Count: 100

 

Puckered and pale scars encircled her ribs and marked her as other, marked her as one touched by heaven and graced by God. She’s not entirely sure she believes that. Buffy hopes, if there’s a God, that he wouldn’t allow someone to fall, not as she had, it was cruel thing to do any creature. 

It almost made her pity Lucifer—almost—but since that particular angel was hell-bent on killing off the human race she’d signed onto Team: Free Will and Castiel was the first to notice her scars, tell her about them. 

The feathers scorched upon her soul.

* * *

Title: home  
Word Count: 200

 

He found her nude, body still damp from a recent shower and inadequate towel dry. One minute she had been alone in the bathroom and the next Castiel’s reflection could be seen over her shoulder, his gaze intent on her body, her scars. 

He really had no sense of personal space or boundaries. 

His hand reached out, hesitant and resentment stirred, muddled her thoughts as her spine stiffened and she took a step forward, away from him. Rage ate at her, stirred her up because they, the angels, him, were the ones that let her go, let her fall. 

Castiel’s hand fell away and he looked up, stared into the mirror’s foggy surface, at her, through her before he stated, “These are not from your fall,” his chin dipped, gaze intent, “these are from where we gripped you tight.” 

Her heart gave an uneven lurch and Buffy felt herself sway forward, his hands found her ribs, cupped her scars and steadied her. The light above them flickered, casting them into shadows as Buffy felt the phantom embrace of wings, of a warmth long forgotten and they were enveloped in twilight as the light died. 

This was what home felt like.


	2. Black Blood and Scars

Title: Black Blood and Scars  
Rating: FR13  
Synopsis: Castiel had entrusted her with keeping this ragtag group alive and well and Buffy planned on doing so—even if it killed her.  
Note: This story was written for the ‘[Art is the Weapon](http://buffyxdean.livejournal.com/90653.html)’ challenge over at the buffyxdean community on livejournal. 

Artist: [bre2004](http://www.primordialsouls.com/)  
Artwork: [Who's Going to Hold Your Hand?](http://www.primordialsouls.com/art/crossovers/bd_whosgoingtoholdyourhand.jpg)

* * *

Damp hair clung to the back of her jean jacket, a jacket that was doing little to keep the humidity from settling over her and making the cool air seem frigid. Green eyes narrowed, sweeping back and forth as Buffy Summers searched the vacant street for signs of life as the group she’d found herself trapped with the night before became useful during daylight hours. They were families, a mother, daughter duo and two brothers, that when combined with the wheelchair bound hunter became something close to a nuclear family.

The looks the mother, Ellen Harvelle, shot towards her daughter, Joanna (for the love of God please call her Jo) before turning that considering gaze on the brothers made her ache for her own mother in ways Buffy hadn’t thought possible since dragging herself free of her grave. The feelings those mothering gazes invoked chafed in the most annoying and heartwarming of ways and she shoved them back, weighed those emotions down to churn in her gut before she thought of Dawn and all she’d lost.

Ellen turned that stare on her, but the thoughts behind her gaze were different, not hostile, but definitely not willing to have a stranger at her back. Buffy knew that look, she’d perfected that look by the age of sixteen and while she understood the need for it she still found the meaning behind it irksome. She hadn’t been brought in by the Winchesters or Bobby Singer, she was Castiel’s backup and that look, from a hunter as seasoned as Ellen, meant she didn’t trust Castiel. Not entirely.

Of course neither did Buffy, but since she was alone inside her head she was allowed moments of blatant hypocrisy. 

Castiel had saved Dean and the other members of this rag team group numerous times and therefore should have earned their respect and trust by now, but for Buffy he represented all that had failed her, all that she’d lost and was still ached for as she stumbled her way through life. It didn’t matter that Castiel trusted her, trusted her to keep this group alive and on point and entrusted her with his most powerful weapon and that thought brought her back into the present.

Her left arm tucked tighter against her side, pressing the cut-down sword, covered in markings that would have kept Giles up for months researching, tighter to her side. The makeshift harness Dean, the only person Castiel wished to know about her possession of the weapon, had fashioned for her out of an old shoulder holster kept the sword at ready even while her hands were filled with a shotgun. It was a good thing her Watcher couldn’t see her now since he’d be less than thrilled at the sight of his charge ready and willing to use something other than archaic weaponry to take on the hordes of hell.

That brought a smile to her face, that caused Ellen to shoot her a worried glance but before the hunter could address her concerns Buffy caught sight of woman standing in the middle of the street to their left. Dark hair done in haphazard curls fell around her shoulders as she taunted Dean, the questionable leader of their little group, and the pair traded barbs. Buffy stifled the urge to yawn and instead took on a bored stance as she studied their adversary and aside from her being better dressed than most (Buffy would have killed her just to get those boots) she didn’t strike her as all that impressive.

The faint sound of heavy panting pulled Buffy further from the conversation going on in front of her and she turned her head to the side, lashes falling as her eyes closed and she focused. Claws scrapped over concrete and a growl from several feet in front of them had Buffy’s eyes opening just as the demon, apparently named Meg, confirmed the presence of hellhounds. Buffy took three steps back from the group as Dean aimed his gun, the Colt, which according to Castiel could possibly kill the devil, and wasted one of the bullets on a hound.

Black blood decorated the street and the puddle beside Meg arched upward to speckle those boots as the body of the hellhound collapsed and Buffy found the group converging on her. She spun, catching up to them in three easy strides and shouted, “Dean!”

His head turned, the Colt already safely tucked away as she handed off her rock-salt filled shotgun with her left, the right reaching for Castiel’s sword. The always warm metal filled her hand as she wound her fingers around the hilt and tugged it upwards and out, freeing the sword from the sheath. It glinted in what little sun the fog filled streets had to offer, the light refracted by the symbols carved along its three-sided blade, as Buffy focused on the sound of heavy footfalls behind her and directly to her left.

Dean stumbled, his legs pulled out from under him and Buffy twisted, her right knee popping as she forced too hard a turn out of it. She dropped low, her shoulder impacting coarse fur and solid muscle as she tossed the hound from its intended victim and it rolled, striking a street sign with a whimper and thud. She ignored Dean’s nod of gratitude to focus and felt the warmth a hellhound’s breath a moment before impact. She spun, boot heels scraping over the asphalt, knee protesting, as the hound caught her at chest level, teeth finding purchase in her shoulder and a grunt escaped her as she hit the ground.

She flipped the sword, business side out, and drove it upward, towards the mouth grinding her bones. It hit thick muscle then bone and a strangled cry escaped the hound before it sagged, its heavy weight suffocating and reminding her absently of grave dirt. Buffy tucked her knees up and rolling herself with the carcass. She landed in a crouch over the dead thing and her chin lifted as she heard another two changing course and heading towards her. 

One reached her left side first, breath tickling the hairs on the back of her hand and she dove to the right, body tucking as she landed on her wounded shoulder. Her breath hissed outward, teeth clenching as she suppressed the urge to wither in pain and instead slashed out with the sword. She felt the blade score the flanks of one of the hellhounds and was rewarded with a whimper. A whimper that turned into a howl as she twisted her wrist, arm pulling back before shoving forward and piercing the side of that hound, downing it. 

Her elation with the small victory was short-lived as another impacted her back, claws descended and scoring the shoulder of her right arm. A spasm shook her hand and she tightened her hold on the sword, unwilling to give up her only advantage. She flinched, brows tugging together when she heard Jo’s shout of her name and the hound pinning her suddenly took on a massive amount of rock-salt. 

It slid from her back, but not before digging its claws into her hip and dragging them across as it left her. She collapsed forward, onto her elbows. Strong arms encircled her waist, dragging her up and onto her feet and her head turned with the sound of Jo, the person who’d just saved her from becoming Kibbles and Bits, fall beneath another hound. Bloody marks split the thighs of her jeans and she cried out, drawing Buffy’s ire and her arm up.

The sword left her hand and sank soundly into the shadow descending on Jo. The odd angle at which the sword hovered over Jo told Buffy better than words she’d managed a headshot on an invisible creature. That small smile was back as she was ushered into the relative safety of a general store by Sam and she watched as Dean gathered the sword and a limping Jo. 

Ellen was suddenly beside her, pulling her from the support Sam’s body provided and she stumbled, callused hands catching her as she was forced to the floor and her jacket tugged away from her wounds with the same lack of finesse as she was worried over. She ignored the mothering to watch Dean make it, Jo a step behind and Sam slammed the door and the trio gathered salt bags, laying a haphazard line between themselves and the rattling door. A hiss escaped her when Ellen probed the shoulder that had been used as a chew toy and she turned her head. 

Turned her head and found Ellen not looking over her wound, but at her. Looking at her with that same family type look she reserved for her girl and the brothers, but now it was directed at her. 

It still chafed.

* * *

A hand caught the back of Dean’s neck, fingers pulling at the aching muscles and his head dropped, chin resting against his chest as he made his way up the stairs toward a couple hours of rest. A heaviness had settled in his bones since they’d left Carthage and while he knew Bobby and Sam were happy as pigs in shit over the fact that everyone had made it out of that hellhole alive he wasn’t nearly as thrilled. The reality of it was no matter how he looked at the hunt it was still a failure. Aside from irritating the devil the Colt hadn’t done shit and they were right back to square _freaking_ one.

It had been a long time since he’d felt this damn helpless, powerless and since he had no intention to mull over the events of Cold Oaks again he quickened his stride, taking the steps two at a time until he saw the landing to the second floor. Boots hitting the stairs with enough force to shake the few pictures gathering dust on Bobby’s walls as he hit the carpeted hallway and headed towards the bedroom he and Sam had commandeered. A muffled curse slowed his steps and Dean glanced to his right, frowning at the closed door as he did a quick catalogue of where everyone else was at the moment.

Castiel had wandered off to parts unknown, his brother and Bobby were sharing beers near the fire downstairs and Ellen had Jo sprawled on the couch next to them as she doctored Jo’s thigh. His eyes closed, mouth turning down with a frown when he realized _who_ was behind that door and that she’d been the bloodiest of all on the trip back. With a sigh he lifted his left hand and dropped it against the worn wood, side first and more than once, before he lowered it to the handle.

A waspish, “Yeah,” was the only reply to his knocking and Dean’s brow arched as he twisted the doorknob and entered without invitation. Green eyes widened at the sight of the blonde struggling to get her jean jacket down her arms, the blood having long since dried, leaving the fabric stiff and unyielding.

“Christ, it’s called asking for help,” Dean muttered as he strode into the room, “here. Let me.”

Buffy’s head lifted, bared a face that was freckled with blood and painted with annoyance, whether with him or her jacket was anyone’s guess, as he settled himself beside her and took over. He ignored the stubborn set of her jaw as deft hands caught her arms and spun her slowly towards the opposite wall. Catching the hem of the jacket and frowning at the gaping slash marks decorating it, he asked (see ordered), “Can you straighten your arms behind you?”

A hiss escaped her, but she did as requested and Dean worked at maneuvering the material down her arms. The blood held the jacket to her shirt and her shirt to her skin which caused more than a few winces, but after a few minutes of patience and effort he’d managed to work it free and drop it to the floor. He took in the sight of her back, the blood having turned a sickening shade of orange in the stains furthest from four claw marks covering her right side, starting just beneath the chewed look of her shoulder. 

“Did Ellen look at this?” 

Her head turned, chin hovering above the wound and green eyes looked at him through mascara smeared eyelashes and a sigh lifted her chin before she stated, “Not since Carthage.” 

His mouth thinned and his gaze returned to her injuries, frowning with the fact that they needed to remove the shirt so he could see the full extent of them and her thigh wasn’t looking so hot through the bloody tears in her jeans. “Come on,” he spun, making his way back to the open door and into the hallway. Her quiet foot falls limped after his as he led her into the narrow bathroom located on the second floor and pulled back the curtain of the shower. “Get in.” 

“Excuse me?” 

The disgruntled question brought a smirk up to curve his mouth, finding some amusement with her irritation, as he explained, “Your shirt and jeans need to be off so I can first aid your injuries. The least painful way I know of to do that is to get them wet.” 

Her right hand rose, fingers playing with the hem of said shirt as she gazed past him into the shower and questioned, “Take off my shirt?” 

A snort escaped him and her gaze lifted as he offered, “I see something I haven’t seen before I’ll—”

Her chin jerked, head shaking as she countered, “I’m not worried about you ogling my goodies.” 

Dean resisted the urge to mock her use of the word ogle and instead cocked his head, his brow following a moment later and simply waited for Buffy to grow a pair. Her shoulders sank under his steady gaze and she bent, wincing, to remove her boots and muttering something about scars at the floor. She swayed, her center of gravity shot to hell by blood loss was Dean’s best bet, and he steadied her with a palm on her right shoulder. 

For a moment she leaned into the contact before gathering her bearings and rose, feet bare, and her hands moving to tackle the button of her jeans. Dean left her to it and turned, hitting the shower on and turning the facet towards a bearable hot since Bobby’s water heater tended towards temperamental and would scald the shit out the unsuspecting. 

He shook off his hand and stepped back, allowing a wincing blonde to pass him without raunchy comment about her half-bared ass and climb over the tub’s edge and into the water. The jeans turned dark instantly where they sat low on her hips, the wound on her thigh making it impossible to push them down any father. He watched her turn her face into the spray first, scrubbing at her makeup and the blood before she turned sideways and allowed the water to beat at her wounded side. A grimace worked its way across her features as rust colored water slipped its way down the drain and he waited until the entire shirt and her jeans were saturated before leaning in and turning the water off. 

Snagging a towel from the rack beside him he handed it to her and she quickly buried her face in it. He could hear the chatter in her teeth as she questioned, “Did you need to make it so hot?” 

“Ask Bobby,” was his retort as he caught her good shoulder and turned her to face the shower wall. His voice was soft as he offered, “I don’t think I mentioned it before, but thanks.” 

Her response of, “For what?” was muffled by their movement. 

He slipped his fingers under the hem of the shirt and pulled it up, gently working his way around the claw marks even as she twitched in response and responded, “For saving my ass, for saving Jo’s. Ellen will get around to the whole gratitude thing eventually.”

“Once she’s assured her Jo’s in full working order.” Dean smiled at her understanding of that dynamic as they worked to free her left arm first and then her head, saving the shoulder with the puncture holes, that had shirt still imbedded in them, for last. 

He was so intent on the task at hand he failed to notice the smooth, too smooth, skin under his fingertips until her wounded side was free and he was dropping the blood filled rag, that had once been clothing, to the floor of the tub. His eyes widened, brows dropping into frown when he finally saw the scars, her muttering suddenly making horrific sense, that encircled her ribcage. 

They spanned out from just above either shoulder blade, her spine a clean line of unblemished skin, while the scars cut into her flesh in stripes of pale pink and white that swept down and around her sides. She turned, her face devoid of emotion and gaze boring into his chest, and Dean’s dipped, taking in the fact that the scars came forward and down, grazing her hip bones before disappearing beneath the wet jeans still covering her lower half. 

He swallowed, tongue thick in his mouth and throat filled with cotton and his left hand rose to absently cup his right shoulder, his own scar suddenly aching and uncomfortable and filling him with a sickening realization, “Cas—”

“No,” she shook her head and lifted the towel up, positioning it around her body, covering her scars. “No. It wasn’t Castiel.” 

“Then what?” His brows dipped, pulling together as he offered, “Fire?” 

“No flame on earth could create markings such as those.” Dean’s spine stiffened and he turned, found Castiel directly behind him and took a stumbling step forward away from the angel who’s his gaze was solely for the shivering blonde. “I believe I am your ride home.” 

Green eyes widened and her mouth opened, closed before she offered, “I’d like to stay.” 

A small smile curved in the corner of Castiel’s mouth and he nodded before turning and making his way down the hallway and then the stairs. Dean blinked, confused and put off by the entire exchange, but he looked to Buffy and offered, voice tired, “Wanna talk about it?” 

She snorted. “Not hardly.” 

“Thank God.” He offered her a hand, which she accepted with a grateful smile and climbed out of the tub, wet jeans dragging across the tile floor. “Now let’s clean those wounds, down a fifth of Jack and sleep through tomorrow.” 

“Deal.”

As he lead the blonde from the bathroom and back into the bedroom she’d claimed, Dean knew he’d been wrong in Carthage. Castiel wasn’t their angel in the hole, Buffy was and perhaps square one wouldn’t suck as hard as he thought if she was sticking around. 

+

The end.


	3. deeper than skin

Title: deeper than skin  
Rating: FR13  
Prompt: gilded cage & fugacious @ tamingthemuse   
Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. No infringement intended.

* * *

A cold front had chased their asses back into South Dakota and settled over Sioux Falls, turning the usually brisk month of November into a miserably cold _sonofabitch_. Singer Salvage Yard had become like less of a home and more of a prison for those trapped within its confines, but, as far as Bobby Singer was concerned, the cold front was welcome to linger. A poker, cast iron and heavy as shit, was used to stir the embers before Bobby added another log onto the fire. It crackled and sighed before the flame caught and more warmth was cast onto his overcrowded living room. 

Joanna Beth was asleep in his recline, wounded thigh elevated by a rolled up blanket and her head at an uncomfortable looking angle, but none of them dared disturb her in an attempt to right the situation. Ellen Harvelle was a goddamn fine woman and mother, but protective to a fault as far as Bobby was concerned. She’d taken up residence in his kitchen and normally a woman puttering around in Karen’s domain irritated him, but Bobby figured he’d known Ellen long enough to just let it pass. 

The poker nudged the new log once more to ensure a sturdy placement before he returned it to the holder. His hands settled over the wheels of his chair and he drew them, and himself back, before holding the right wheel steady as he turned himself around with the left. The ease in which he used the wheelchair was both helpful and irritating as hell, but Bobby was learning, slow but sure, to just accept the damn thing until he could change it. He still held out hope that he could change it. 

Bobby pushed himself towards the couch that housed the Winchesters and the tiny blonde with a name that happened to be both ridiculous and fitting. Buffy Summers wasn’t a hunter, at least not like any Bobby had ever encountered, and she’d come with the full backing of angel which sort of just went along with the name. Castiel had proven himself an ally, but Bobby wasn’t yet ready to call him a friend which left him at odds as how to feel about Buffy. 

Dean was more inclined than most to trust Castiel and she might’ve saved Joanna Beth’s life which had Ellen singing her praises, but Bobby had noticed Sam watching her with an unease that mirrored distrust. Though, to be fair, Sam wasn’t always the best judge of character and the fact that the girl’s injuries were healing at a rapid rate was reason enough to stare. A hellhound’s claws tended to be more tiger than canine, but those bloody marks had smoothed in recent days. 

All that remained were vivid bruises painted in fading shades of purple and red with flecks of deeper black. If Bobby hadn’t been the one to dress her wounds in the beginning he’d have never believed Ellen’s telling of the events. Buffy did not look as if she’d gone through the ringer as the tale depicted and at the moment, with her features slack with sleep, she looked younger than Joanna Beth and twice as frail. 

Her brows dipped, body tensing as a pained sound crawled its way out of her throat. Bobby frowned at the noise and felt the hairs rise along the back of his neck as he watched Dean turn from his reading and look at the woman beside him on the couch. 

“Summers?” He made her surname a question and that drew Sam’s gaze up so that both Winchesters were watching her and Dean repeated, voice growing louder, “Come on, Sleeping Beauty, risin’ shine.” 

“Sleeping Beauty?” 

Sam’s mockery of the moniker had Bobby smirking and Dean swiveling his head to shoot little brother a narrowed look before he returned to his study of the blonde. Her next breath came out as rattle and the pinched look of her face deepened. Sam rose, towering above them all as Dean dropped a hand on the shoulder closest to him. Her head rocked with his gentle probing, but she remained wrapped in Morpheus’ embrace. 

The shadow that descended over the blonde had Bobby stiffening as Sam came to a stand beside him and Castiel appeared behind the Buffy. His hand fell across her free shoulder and the tension fled her body. She sagged against the couch as the lines between her brows smoothed and her breathing evened out. Bobby caught Dean’s surprised look as his gaze rose to Castiel’s and found the angel frowning down at the young woman. 

“Somethin’ you wanna share with the class, Castiel?” 

Blue eyes rose from the perusal of the blonde to meet Bobby’s gaze and his frown deepened. “I do not understand.” 

“Who is she?”

Sam’s retort was the question on all their minds and Bobby heard Ellen making her way from the kitchen and into the living room. He turned, dipping his chin in acknowledgement of her presence before he turned back to the conversation at hand and found Castiel had returned his gaze to the young woman. 

“Buffy Summers.” 

Her name was offered as a statement of fact and as if that should explain all their questions—which if obviously didn’t. 

“Cas,” Dean took a shot, “We know her name. How ‘bout you tell us how you know her.” 

“Heaven.” 

Bobby sat up straighter in his chair and Sam stiffened beside him, but it was Dean’s startled reaction that worried him. The oldest Winchester tended to worry over such things and this little bit of intel wasn’t going to sit easy on his shoulders. 

Ellen drew them back from their thoughts by parroting, “Heaven?” Castiel nodded, gaze never leaving Buffy as Ellen probed, “How’s that again?” 

“We met during her time in heaven.” 

“We get that, Cas,” Dean countered, voice rough, “Why’s she here?”

“Hold on just a damn moment,” all of them turned their gazes on Ellen and she glowered right back at them. “Should we be having this conversation here?” She shot a pointed look at the blonde. 

“Ellen’s right—”

“I must remain with her until this episode passes.” Castiel interrupted Sam’s agreement and continued, “She should also be privy to this conversation.” 

Bobby shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that the angel was right and it’d be best to talk _with_ Buffy rather than about her. Ellen’s hand dropped onto his shoulder, as if she read his mind, and he looked up to catch her nod as she readily agreed, “We can discuss it at dinner. Stew will be ready in ‘bout an hour.” She gave the rest of them a stern look and the order, “We can wait that long.” 

The boys mumbled their agreement and Castiel inclined his head—tact was an unfamiliar concept for the angel—and Bobby snarked, “Yes’em.” 

Ellen’s hand tightened around his shoulder before it slipped away and Bobby chose to ignore the loss of warmth as Sam retook his seat and Dean turned back to the research strewn across his coffee table. Castiel remained where he was, hand still cupping the blonde’s shoulder and gaze settled on her slack features. 

He’d of called the look love—but he knew damn well better.

* * *

The not so subtle sound of her spoon scraping the bottom of bowl had Buffy Summers flinching. She resisted the urge to look at the others occupying Bobby’s kitchen table as she finished her last bite of stew. The simple goodness of something homemade was a balm on the soul as far as she was concerned. Buffy lowered the bowl back to the table top, having tipped it to get the last drop of gravy-yum, with a content sigh. She offered Ellen a timid smile—still not entirely used to someone that was equal parts demanding and mothering. 

It was returned, but twice as wide, and Ellen rose from her place beside a drowsy Jo to snag that empty bowl. “There’s plenty more,” the gruff explanation accompanied her quick departure from the table. 

“Thanks,” Buffy called after her retreating back and placed her hands, palms down and fingers spread out, on the warm spot left by the bowl.

She glanced around the table to see three of the five other occupants watching her with a mixture of mistrust and curiosity. She offered the Winchesters a quirking of her mouth and watched Sam’s eyes narrow—Mr. Mistrustful that guy—and Dean shrugged before returning to his own meal. That man ate more than a basset hound. A frown tugged at her brow as she found herself pondering exactly how much a basset hound could eat as she ignored Sam’s watchful stare. 

Bobby made an odd sound that was more _harrumph_ than anything else from his place at the head of the table. Wheelchair accessible or not, she was pretty certain he’d be sitting there regardless. She cast a glance his way, but found him eating rather than watching her and found herself thankful for small favors. 

Castiel sat beside her in stoic silence—par for the course where the angel was concerned—and Jo was half-asleep in her stew. The spoon only lifted from bowl to mouth every few minutes and the younger woman had been silent for the most part. The painkillers Ellen had fed her appeared to be working nicely as far as Buffy could tell. 

She turned her gaze back to Sam, found him still staring, and met his narrowed look with one of her own. His brows dipped, mouth following suit and she lost her patience with the impromptu staring contest as her temper slipped and she snapped, “Did ya need something?” 

The angel at her shoulder stiffened and the spoon stopped halfway to Dean’s mouth, but Buffy kept her focus solely on Sam and his tendencies to study her was chafing more than Ellen’s urges to mother. “What are you?”

“Samuel Winchester,” Ellen’s snap of his name drew him up straight as she returned to the table and placed another full bowl in front of Buffy. A hand settled on her shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze, before she turned a mutinous look on the young man across from them. “I’ll not have you harassing her while she eats.” 

“She is human.” There was no inflection to Castiel’s simple statement of fact. 

Buffy retrieved her spoon and spared the angel a grateful look before scowling at Sam. “What he said.” 

“More than human, you mean,” was Bobby’s gruff assessment. Buffy chose to eat another spoonful of stew rather than look to the aging hunter as he continued, “I don’t mind you, Buffy. The way Ellen tells it you damn near saved their collective asses in Carthage and they ain’t new to the job—”

“It’s not a job,” Buffy interrupted and swallowed her mouthful of stew before looking to Bobby. “It’s a way of life.” 

Ellen moved around the table to reclaim her seat beside a now fully asleep Jo. “I’ll drink to that,” was stated casually as she snagged her beer and tilted it towards the rest of the table’s occupants. 

Dean stopped filling his face a moment to join in the toast, that wasn’t much of a toast, but when his beer was settled he stated, voice certain, “Secrets have a way of biting you in the ass.” 

Buffy coughed, choking on her beer and staring at him wide-eyed. “Excuse me?” A line appeared between Castiel’s brows and he shifted beside her, drawing Buffy’s focus back to him. “What’s the what?”

The angel cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders back, a sure sign he was suddenly uncomfortable with the current topic of conversation, but Buffy simply raised her brow at him. “There was a moment earlier while you slept.” 

He paused and Buffy waited a beat, two, before prompting, “And something happened in this moment?” 

“Perhaps,” Castiel glanced around the table before settling his gaze on Buffy, “I should start at the beginning.” 

Her eyes widened with his meaning, but it was Dean’s waspish, “Ya think?” that settled the angel’s mind. 

“There are souls we guard in heaven.” Castiel’s head inclined, “Those deemed worthy of such reverence are protected at all times.” 

Dean seemed to understand that Buffy had been one of these souls and asked a better question than most, “So how’s she here?” 

“Osiris,” Buffy filled in for Castiel with a shrug before adding, “And an incredibly powerful witch.” 

“Buffy was resurrected, but one of us attempted to stop it.” Her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around her middle, her scars as Castiel continued, “The one guarding her thought himself strong enough to withstand one stubborn human and a minor deity.” Castiel sighed, “He was not.” 

“He gripped me a bit too tight,” Buffy confessed, attempting for flippant. She saw the confused looks surrounding her and the understanding in Dean’s gaze. She frowned—she’d assumed he’d have already told the others about her scars—and sighed before rising from the table to lift her shirt. Ellen’s muttered curse was ignored, but she’d admit to a petty superiority with the paling of Sam’s features. 

“While attempting to protect her, the angel did just the opposite.” Castiel continued as if she hadn’t just done something incredibly personal and intimate. It made her smile as she lowered her shirt and retook her seat. His next words however did little to alleviate her discomfort. “Her soul was torn asunder.” 

Buffy ran a hand down her center and attempted flippant, “My soul is Humpty Dumpty and Castiel just keeps trying to put me all back together.” 

“The scars,” Bobby frowned, all gruff and rumbles, “They look like wings to me.” 

A shrug lifted Buffy’s shoulder, “The strongest part of an angel.” 

“He should’ve allowed you to fall.” Castiel nodded and Buffy flinched, “Fighting the process left pieces of your soul behind.” 

“In heaven?” Doubtful Sam reared his Vidal Sassoon inspired head—seriously Buffy needed the name of his conditioner. Stat. 

“The pieces wish to reconnect. It draws her towards heaven.”

“In other words it gives me the death wish to end all death wishes.” Buffy confided before noticing Ellen’s horrified look. She chose to ignore it and quirked a brow at the others. “I don’t intend to kill myself.” 

“Not intentionally,” Castiel countered and then smiled, “She has work to do.”

“Mission-girl,” Buffy agreed and shoved a spoonful of stew into her mouth. 

Dean watched her a moment before snagging his beer. He tipped it towards her before downing the rest of its contents in one long gulp. His reaction settled the rest of the crew with Bobby returning to his own bowl and Sam’s stare became less hostile and more considering while Jo continued to snore quietly into her chest. 

Ellen reclaimed her seat and her beer. She followed Dean’s example and finished it, but she was watching Buffy with a look that was of the familiar sort. A look that meant Buffy had just become one of this lioness’ cubs—and for once it didn’t chafe.

* * *

The end.


End file.
